Time to Be Brave
by little0bird
Summary: A series of drabbles that take place between "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and "Oathkeeper."
1. Candle Bright

Jaime swept his wet hair from his face and held up a pair of brown roughspun trousers. They looked a bit large, but Brienne wouldn't mind. He piled it on the counter of the tailor's shop, then rummaged for a tunic. He found one made of tightly woven brown wool that looked as if it would do, then turned to a line of pegs on the wall, hand reaching for a plain brown cloak to match, but his eye caught a bit of blue, and he swept the layers of brown, black, and grey aside. The cloak was the same hue of summer skies. And nearly the same shade of Brienne's eyes.

Not that he'd noticed.

He paid the tailor using coin Steelshanks had loaned him, with the promise that Tywin would repay him, then bundled the clothing under his arm. He strode down the street to the inn where they'd stopped for the night and went to the chamber that had been given to Brienne. He knocked perfunctorily on the door and barged in.

'Seven hells!' Brienne swore. She hastily sat up and crossed her arms over her chest, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. 'Why must you insist on interrupting my baths?' she barked.

Jaime averted his eyes. He edged toward the narrow bed and deposited the clothes on it. 'I thought these might suit you better than that dress.'

Brienne shifted in the tub, her knees drawn to her chest. She glanced at the pile of wool and roughspun, expecting to hear a litany of terms and conditions. When none were forthcoming, she said quietly, 'I thank you.'

Jaime inclined his head. 'My lady.'

'Ser Jaime.'

Jaime felt the same candle-bright glow of warmth when she called him by his name that he'd felt the first time she'd used it.


	2. Name Day

It was the sort of day Brienne most enjoyed. The sun had begun to peek through the clouds and burn off the fog that shrouded the valley. She could tell were much closer to King's Landing, because the sun warmed her shoulders as it rose higher into the sky. Every now and again, she truly missed Tarth and the scent of sun-warmed cypress trees and lavender that drifted into her father's castle, with the undertone of salt from the Straits of Tarth.

'When is your name day?' Jaime's voice intruded into her reverie of deep blue water and verdant hills, the grass waving in the ever-present breeze from the sea.

'Why?' Brienne still found herself wondering what darts Jaime would use with information she provided him about herself, even if she did trust his word that no harm would come to her.

Jaime shrugged. 'Why not? After everything we've been through, it seems as if it's something we should know about one another.' He paused and batted a bee away from his face. 'Mine is the third day of the eleventh moon,' he supplied helpfully.

Brienne made an irritable noise under her breath. 'I dislike my name day,' she muttered to her horse's ears.

'Why?'

Brienne's hand twitched and she clenched it into a fist. 'My older brother died and was buried on my eighth name day,' she said tightly, then pressed her lips together.

'I'm sorry.'

Brienne's shoulders jerked in a shrug. 'It's the twenty-second day of the fourth moon,' she coughed.

Jaime frowned calculating the date. 'That's tomorrow.'

'Is it?' Brienne tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice was flat and emotionless. 'Doesn't matter. Haven't celebrated my name day in years.'

'How old will you be?' Jaime asked curiously. Brienne could have been eighteen or thirty. She had one of those faces where she probably looked thirty when she was eighteen.

'A gentleman never asks a lady's age,' Brienne said stiffly.

'I'm not a gentleman, and, as you're so fond of saying, you're no lady.' Jaime grinned impudently at her.

'Twenty-eight.'

'Still wet behind the ears, then.'

'Piss off,' Brienne muttered grumpily.

Jaime laughed quietly and kicked his horse into a canter.

He said not a word to Brienne the next day, but disappeared when they stopped for the night in a small village. When Brienne emerged from the tiny chamber assigned to her, Jaime waved her to a seat across from him at the long communal table. A small paper-wrapped parcel sat in the place he'd indicated, the ends twisted closed. 'A happy name day to you,' he murmured, as Brienne unwrapped what proved to be a small, slightly squashed honey cake. 'If it were King's Landing, it would be lemon cake,' Jaime said apologetically.

Brienne blinked rapidly. The aroma of honey and spices hung heavy between them. 'It will do.' She didn't smile, but the slight scowl she usually wore softened. Brienne picked up the knife next to her plate and neatly sliced the cake in half, then placed one half on the edge of Jaime's plate.


	3. Inadequate

'Can you read?' Jaime stretched out on his bedroll. 'One might assume that you can, given that you're a highborn lady.' He reclined on his elbows. 'Status isn't an indicator of intelligence, though,' he mused

Brienne gave Jaime an incredulous look. 'Of course I can read. I can even write and do sums as well,' she added sarcastically.

'Are you any good at it?'

'I suppose.' Brienne pulled off a boot and shook out the offending pebble that had annoyed her most of the day. She yanked the boot back on. 'Why?'

'Like I said when we started this fool's errand, we ought to get to know one another.' Jaime lay back and stared up at the darkening sky. 'I always struggled with it. The letters… moved…' He waved his hand in front of his face. 'My father couldn't abide the idea that his son might be simple, so he sat with me every bloody day for hours, beating the skill of reading into me. He did it for months.' Jaime rubbed his nose. 'Enough of my sad tale. Did your father teach you or were you subjected to the insipid instruction of a septa?'

Brienne folded herself to her bedroll and wrapped her arms around her knees, tucking her cloak around her body. 'Both. I was the despair of the septa. Never managed to learn the womanly arts well enough. She enjoyed mocking me during my lessons,' she admitted, toying with a blade of grass, deep in her childhood memories of Septa Roselle deriding her clumsy attempts to curtsey properly, which made her even clumsier; or sneering at Brienne's sewing, her endeavors crumpled with raveling edges. The septa had inadvertently taught her one thing - to be wary of people, especially of the clergy of the Seven. Kindly appearances could hide poisonous tongues. She brushed the bits of grass off her hands. 'My father got tired of watching me fight the squires and mucking it up, so he started teaching me. Said if I was going to swing a damn sword, I should learn to do it well enough to not shame him.'

'You learned well,' Jaime allowed, thinking of how swiftly she'd dispatched the Stark soldiers that had come upon them while she insisted on burying the three dead tavern wenches.

'I'm certain my father would be gratified to hear it.'

'He offered three hundred dragons for your release, you know,' Jaime commented, his eyes fixed on the first star that had appeared.

Brienne's brows drew together as she turned her head away and rested her cheek on her knees. 'That was a generous sum. More than he ought to have offered,' she murmured.

Jaime moved his head slightly, and studied the stiff set of Brienne's shoulders and back. 'And some might say it wasn't generous enough.'

Her shoulders drew a fraction of an inch closer to her ears. 'Haven't you had your fill of mocking me?' she retorted.

Jaime returned his gaze to the stars. 'I wasn't mocking you,' he stated.


	4. Not Interested

Jaime dropped his bedroll next to Brienne's. 'There's no shame in sleeping close together for warmth,' he told her. 'And the nights are cold, even this far south.' Brienne unfurled hers and turned her attention to Jaime's, picking apart the knots on the leather laces, and laid it out next to hers, scowling at him. 'Your virtue is safe with me,' he added.

'Yes, I'm well aware,' Brienne retorted. 'You're not interested.' She tamped down a prickle of annoyance and told herself she wasn't interested, either. A cold finger of wind snaked its way under the collar of her cloak and she shivered pulling it higher around her neck. It _was_ cold once the sun set. And she insisted on sleeping apart from the Bolton men, far from the fire. 'Fine,' she muttered, jerking Jaime's bedroll closer so it nearly touched hers. Brienne yanked her boots off, then slid into her bedroll and turned her back to Jaime.

Jaime briefly rolled his eyes, then crawled into his bedroll, and shifted until his chest just brushed against her back. 'I'm going to put my hand on your waist,' he warned, before doing so, then pulling her back, so he was snugly fitted against her. 'Sleep well, my lady.' Brienne merely snorted, and presently Jaime felt her left foot twitch through their bedrolls and the corner of his mouth turned up. It was how he knew she truly slept as opposed to feigning it. He exhaled slowly and let himself drift into sleep.

Come daybreak, birdsong roused him a little and Jaime's hand cupped around warm flesh, thumb idly brushing over a stiffening nipple. His hips pressed forward, cock hard. Jaime could hardly recall the last time he'd been hard. Before the Battle of Whispering Wood, and that had been two years ago. He nuzzled the back of the head in front of him, eyes springing open, upon the realization the hair wasn't bound in a plait, but cropped short. He rolled to his back, breathing heavily, then eased out of his bedroll and stumbled to the nearby stream, plunging his hand into the frigid waters and splashing it over his face.

Water dripped from his chin onto the roughspun cloak as Jaime stared at Brienne's pale yellow hair, just visible against the grass. _I'm not interested_, he told himself fiercely.


	5. Paint the Red Door Black

The inn was crowded, but Steelshanks and Lord Bolton's gold found space for their group inside. Brienne perched uneasily on the bench, eyes flicking around the room. It was full of half-drunken men, getting drunker by the second. Jaime turned his head to the side, lips near her ear and murmured, 'As soon as you've eaten, I'll see you to your chamber. Bolt the door. Open it to no one. Not even me. I'll come fetch you at daybreak.' She nodded, accepting a trencher with roast chicken and vegetables from a maid.

''Ere now. You lot wi' Lor' Bolton?' The man nodded to the sigil on Steelshanks' chest.

'Aye.' Steelshanks picked up his ale.

'Was you up at th' Twins fer th' weddin?'

'What wedding?' Steelshankes sounded bored.

'Edmure Tully an' Roslin Frey. Lor' Bolton was there.' The man gulped his ale. 'They be callin' it th' Red Weddin'.'

Jaime leaned forward. 'That's an odd name for a wedding,' he commented.

The man snickered. 'No' when th' great hall is painted wi' the blood of th' Starks.'

Jaime's hand dropped and landed on Brienne's knee, then squeezed it tightly. 'What happened?' he asked, dread filling his chest.

'Durin' the feast, tha' shriveled cunt Walder Frey stops th' music.' The man elbowed one of his companions. 'Wha' was they playin'?'

'Rains o' Castamere,' the other man said around a mouthful of chicken.

'Righ'. Rains o' Castamere. Funny song at a weddin' wi' no Lannisters,' the first man mused. 'Anyway, ol' Frey stops th' music an' says he ain't given th' Stark boy a weddin' present. And then it starts…'

Brienne's hand closed around Jaime's wrist in a vise-like grip, cold fingers digging into his skin.

'Frey's men fell on th' Starks. Went after tha' foreign bitch the Young Wolf married first. Stabbed the bastard in her belly.'

Brienne could hardly hear over the roaring in her ears.

'Your Lor' Bolton put a dagger in Stark's heart,' the second man said.

'An' Lady Stark got a red smile,' the first man interjected, drawing a finger across this throat. 'An ol Frey sat at his table, watchin' the slaughter wi' a smile on his face, drinkin' wine like it was a tourney.'

'An' this was after they'd eaten Frey's bread an' salt.' The second man's expression turned thoughtful. 'Guest righ' don' mean much, I guess.'

Brienne stood abruptly. 'Need to piss,' she mumbled, and fled from the inn, nearly knocking over a serving wench as she did so.

Jaime pushed his trencher aside, no longer hungry. The instant the men had mentioned "The Rains of Castamere," the cold dread shaped into a single thought: _Tywin Lannister._ His father would do anything to protect his House, his family. This had Tywin's fingerprints all over it. Him behind the scenes, pulling at the puppet strings, while the Freys took the credit. Or more likely the blame. Either way, no one would ever align themselves with House Frey again. Tywin had neutralized the Starks at very little cost to himself.

'Got all their men outside, too,' the first man was saying to Steelshanks. ''Nother funny thing. 'Eard Lor' Bolton goes up to Robb Stark, tells 'em, "Th' Lannisters sen' their regards." Then stabs 'im righ' through the heart.'

'Is that so?' Steelshanks stared into his ale.

The second man shrugged. 'It's wha' they say.'

'Excuse me,' Jaime murmured. He felt queasy and took a few deep breaths to quell the nausea. A quip meant as a jest had been used to murder someone in cold blood. He could never do what his father did, and conspire to murder his enemies in that way. He still felt spasms of guilt for murdering Alston Lannister and the Karstark boy. He left the inn and went into the yard, wondering if Brienne had left. He wouldn't put it past her to mount her horse, and head for the Twins at a full gallop in order to seek revenge against Walder Frey for murdering Catelyn Stark, armed with nothing save her sense of righteous fury. He knew what she could do with swords, and could well imagine she'd squeeze Frey's head off his neck with one hand. He walked slowly down their line of horses, giving each a pat on the neck as he passed. Hers was still there, enjoying a vigorous rubdown by a small stable lad. Jaime nodded to the lad, then stood in the yard, gazing at the surrounding countryside. She was a fast walker. Brienne could be anywhere.

Jaime could hear leaves rustling just inside the woods behind the inn. He absently licked his index finger and held it up. There was very little wind, and the leaves rustled at too-regular intervals. He followed the sounds and found Brienne standing in front of a young, but stout linden tree. One fist flew out and smacked against the tree trunk, followed by the other. Her knuckles were already raw and bleeding. Jaime blinked as she struck the tree again, harder than before. He strode forward, wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her away. 'Stop that,' he ordered. 'You'll damage your hands, and take from me, that's not something you want to experience.'

Brienne stared at him, open-mouthed, then crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped tightly

around her knees. She let out a low moan, and let her head fall forward, so she curled into a ball of abject misery. The sobs she'd suppressed forced their way out of her throat.

Jaime lowered himself to sit next to her. She rocked back and forth, shoulders convulsing with the effort to not cry out. It was little wonder she mourned so. Catelyn Stark had never treated Brienne with anything other than respect and courtesy that Jaime had seen. Something Brienne had been given too little of in her life.

He tentatively placed his hand between her shoulders and, driven by an urge he didn't want to question, began rubbing slow circles on her back.

Night had fallen before Brienne lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed and nearly swollen to slits. Her face was blotchy and nose raw and red. She'd had to part her lips in order to breathe. He'd never seen weeping such as this. Women at the court had perfected the art of it, so that when they did cry, a single tear clung to their lashes, then slid down the plane of their cheek. Jaime took a worn swatch of linen and the water skin from his belt, laid the linen over his knee and soaked it with water, then pressed it into her unresisting hand. She carelessly swiped it over her face, removing the worst of the tearstains and snot, then shoved it back into Jaime's hand. He poured more water over it, and without thinking, pulled his stump from the sling and slid it under one of Brienne's hands. Jaime began to dab gently at the crusted blood on her knuckles and between her fingers, pausing to rinse the linen every so often. She sat numbly, shuddering every so often while tears trickled unheeded down her cheeks.

'It was wrong,' Jaime told her, head bent over her other hand. _My father was wrong to do it._ Her hands as clean as water could make them, he got a shoulder under her arm and hoisted Brienne to her feet, then propelled her back to the innyard. He deposited her on boulder, then disappeared into the inn and returned several minutes later with two steaming clay mugs balanced on a plate. 'My lady.' He offered her one of the mugs and Brienne listlessly took it, frowning. 'What is it?' she asked suspiciously, her voice husky.

'Camomile tea.' Jaime sniffed the liquid. 'With a generous amount of honey.' He took a sip and set the mug down. 'I am sorry,' he said quietly.

Brienne blew out a shaky breath and nodded mutely.


	6. Just Beyond Reach

The sun glinted off the stream, nearly blinding Jaime while he refilled his and Brienne's waterskins. They were close to King's Landing and would arrive there within a few days. Jaime reckoned he ought to have felt more joy at the thought, after an absence of more than two years. In truth, a part of him wished they never returned. He wasn't the Jaime Lannister that had galloped off to battle Robb Stark, and yet everyone in King's Landing would expect him to be. He stoppered Brienne's waterskin and looped the straps over the crook of his elbow and joined Brienne under the shade of a birch tree. She handed him a small loaf of bread, still warm from the oven and a chunk of cheese. 'Could you…?' He held out the bread and she wordlessly tore it into smaller pieces. The cheese was crumbly, and Jaime managed to break off a chunk. 'Do you remember your mother at all?'

Brienne shook her head. 'Not really. I was very young when she died.' She tore her loaf of bread in half. 'My father told me I have her eyes,' she mused. Her mother was a shadow to Brienne. She'd been ill most of Brienne's young life. From what little her father had said, her mother's last two pregnancies had been quite difficult. Brienne had vague memories of soft singing and even softer hands cupping her face, wreathing her with the scent of violets.

'How old were you?'

Brienne shook herself and took a bite of her bread, chewing it slowly. 'Four,' she said once she'd swallowed.

Jaime pushed his hair from his face. 'So was I.' He examined the cheese. 'Died giving birth to Tyrion.' He took a bite of the cheese. He didn't remember Joanna Lannister very well, despite Cersei's insistence that she certainly did. He wondered if Cersei actually did remember their mother or if she merely parroted what she had been told by others. All he could recall with any certainty was a lilting melody, while a hand stroked his hair and the scent of lilacs on the folds of her dress. 'Everyone always despised Tyrion for it.'

'And you?'

Jaime looked up, a look of aggrievement on his face. 'Never. Not once. Not ever,' he said emphatically. He looked down at the cheese in his hand. 'He was only a baby.' He took another bite of the cheese. 'Do you think your mother's proud of you?'

Brienne gave him a narrow-eyed glare. 'What do you think?' she scoffed.

Jaime picked up his waterskin. 'What's not to be proud of? You're brave. Courageous.' He took a sip of water. 'Loyal to a fault.' He held it out to Brienne. 'No mocking,' he added at her understandably suspicious face.

'What about yours?' Brienne took the proffered waterskin and tilted it over her mouth.

'What mother wouldn't want the man known as the Kingslayer for a son?' Jaime said in a deprecating voice.

Brienne gave the waterskin back to Jaime. 'You are more than that.'

'I was.' Jaime managed to replace the stopper without spilling water. 'I'm not quite sure who I am now.' He looked up and noticed the Bolton men mounting their horses. 'Back in the saddle.'

Brienne dusted the crumbs from her hands and retrieved her waterskin from the grass, then offered a hand to Jaime. He took it and allowed her to haul him to his feet.


	7. In the Shadow of the White Tower

Brienne sat on the sill of the large window of her chamber, her back braced against the side of the frame, knees pulled to her chest, a book propped on her knees. She was as close as one could get to the White Tower without actually being inside it. The tower walls loomed outside her window. She could watch the Kingsguard spar with one another in the mornings. She would have dearly loved to join them, but her own armor and swords had been confiscated by Bolton's men. She mourned the loss. They had been her father's parting gift and blessing to her when he'd sent to her Renly. The armor had been a bit fanciful for her taste, but it was well-made, as were the swords. Most mornings, she wielded an imaginary sword and sparred with her own shadow. It wasn't quite the same, but it would do for now. She mustn't let her skills grow rusty with disuse.

Staying in the Red Keep was rather unsettling, to say the least. Men wearing the colors of House Lannister stood guard outside her chamber door on Jaime's orders. Not to keep her in, but to keep someone out. Who, Jaime wouldn't say. It grated on Brienne's nerves.

A page had carried in several bundles from a tailor's shop, nearly staggering under the weight. Someone had gone to the trouble to provide her with everything from smallclothes to a tunic of blue wool so long, the hem fell several inches below her knees. Whoever it was even had her House sigil embroidered on it. There had been no note, and Brienne had thoroughly searched the wrappings and the clothing. It was someone who knew her well. Trousers, tunics, a leather jerkin. Nary a dress or skirt in sight. Mostly in a serviceable brown, but like the long tunic, there were touches of blue. The hue of the sleeveless linen tunic and pants she wore in preparation for sleep reminded her of the waters off the coast of Tarth.

She angled her head just enough to look up at the night sky. It was hazy with the smoke of thousands of fires in King's Landing. She wanted to leave the city. Preferably with Sansa in tow.

Jaime nodded to the Lannister guard and knocked on Brienne's chamber door. He was tired. He felt off-balance with the damned golden hand. He was hungry. No one seemed to realize he was unable to simultaneously use a knife and fork. Meals with the Bolton men had usually been porridge or stew, which he could manage. The times when it had been some sort of roasted meat or sausages, Brienne had merely taken his plate or trencher, and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, then gave it back, without comment.

The bolt slid back and the door opened. Brienne peered through a crack, then opened it wider and stepped back. He slipped through the opening and turned when he heard the door close. Jaime took in Brienne's dress - or rather, lack of it - and held up his hand in apology. 'I've disturbed your rest. I'll go.'

'You've disturbed nothing.' Brienne resumed her seat in the window.

Jaime gestured to the bowl of fruit on the table near the fireplace. 'May I?'

'Of course.'

His hand hovered over the orange nestled in the bowl. He loved oranges. They had been a special treat when he was a boy, especially on his name day. He'd tried peeling one a few days before, but it had been beyond his meagre abilities, so he bypassed it in favor of an apple. He dropped into the chair, his spine balanced on the edge of the seat, and took a large bite. Jaime wiped the juice from his chin with the back of his hand. 'You should always wear blue,' he commented off-handedly. 'It suits you.' He took another bite. 'Does it all fit properly?'

It had been said so casually that it took Brienne a moment to realize who her mysterious benefactor was. 'You're responsible for the clothes.' She rose and went to the small cupboard that held them, and said, 'I cannot accept it. I can't repay you…' she said stiffly.

'It's no more than you deserve,' Jaime responded testily. 'It's less than you deserve. Take it as my thanks for returning me home safely.' He took another bite. 'I probably would have died if not for you,' he admitted. He owed her far more than just a few sets of clothes. A warrior needed armor and a sword, after all.

Brienne's hands clenched behind her back. 'Thank you.' She retreated to the window and perched on the edge of the sill. She indicated the golden hand. 'Wouldn't a hook be more useful?'

'I wasn't consulted.'

Brienne snorted. 'You can say no.'

Jaime finished the apple and threw the core into the fire. 'I didn't want to start another fight,' he mumbled, then got to his feet. 'I'll leave you to your bed.' He formally bowed. 'Lady Brienne.'

'Ser Jaime.'


	8. Armor

'I need the name of a good armorer,' Jaime mused. 'Preferably a discreet one.'

Tyrion carefully set his ever-present winecup down. 'Why?' His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'You have armor. Lannister and Kingsguard.'

Jaime fiddled with one of the leather laces of his golden hand. 'Someone of my acquaintance had theirs confiscated, partially due to my actions. I should like to replace it.' He took a slow sip of the wine Tyrion had poured for him. 'A Lannister always pays their debts,' he murmured, almost to himself.

'Tobho Mott. You'll pay more, but the work is impeccable.' Tyrion gave his brother a thoughtful look. 'I can send Podrick to bring him here.'

Jaime shook his head. 'I'll go to him myself.' He toyed with a grape. 'I'd rather not arouse more suspicions than I have to.'

Tyrion leaned back, his fingers steepled together. 'This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain extraordinarily tall, blonde haired, blue-eyed…' He paused, searching for a word. 'Would one call her a lady? - woman, then, that came to King's Landing with you? The one who longingly observes the Kingsguard or gold cloaks sparring? Watching every move and finding fault with most of it?'

Jaime rolled the grape under his index finger. 'She is Selwyn Tarth's daughter. He's the lord of Evenfall Hall. So yes, she is Lady Brienne.' He met Tyrion's incredulous gaze with a level one of his own. 'I won't have you mocking her.'

'I see.' Tyrion drained his winecup, then refilled it. 'Interesting choice, I must say.'

Jaime scowled and threw the grape at Tyrion, intending to hit him right between the eyes, like he used to, but the angle was all wrong with his left hand. It missed and sailed harmlessly over Tyrion's head. 'It's not like that.' He plucked another grape from the cluster on his plate. 'I was her captive.'

'Must not have been very good as a guard,' Tyrion commented lightly. 'Considering you came back minus a hand.'

The expression on Jaime's face hardened. 'Her life was worth more than my hand.' _And so is her honor. _

Tyrion gave his brother another appraising look. 'She won't be able to stay in King's Landing.' He took a long sip of his wine. 'Our father abhors divided loyalty.'

Jaime picked up his winecup and held it to the sunlight streaming into Tyrion's chambers. A lovely Dornish red, the light creating crimson sparks. He gulped half the wine in the cup. 'Considering how our father no longer considers me his son, does it really matter?' He set the cup down with a _thump _.

'You know he will again,' Tyrion muttered sardonically.

'I know.' Jaime pushed his chair back and left the room without another word.

* * *

Brienne closed her eyes, then opened them again, hoping the message from her father had changed. She'd written a brief message to him when they'd first arrived in King's Landing to inform him she was well and relatively unharmed. Her virtue unbesmirched. She doubted Selwyn was overly concerned about her virginity, considering she was closer to thirty than twenty, and unlikely to marry anyone. She glanced down at the parchment in her hand. Selwyn wrote in firm, bold strokes, and the words stood out in stark relief on the parchment.

He ordered her to attend King Joffery's wedding, as a representative of Evenfall and House Tarth.

She'd always hated social functions. Moreso since the disastrous ball her father had insisted she attend. She might be the heir to Evenfall and Tarth, but it wasn't enough to entice men to overlook her size. Or looks. Or her awkwardness in any social situation. Brienne did not have the gift of chatting easily with the person seated next to her at a dinner. She always took too long to weigh what she was going to say. Septa Roelle had ridiculed her attempts at conversation often and at great length, even going to far as to cruelly mock Brienne. It didn't compel Brienne to improve, rather it exacerbated her natural shyness to the point where if she wasn't making some sort of proclamation or exchanging the most banal of responses, she rarely engaged in conversation, much less initiated it. It served as armor.

Weddings among strangers were one of her worst nightmares. She heartily wished Selwyn would sail across the Straits of Tarth and come to the blasted event. At least she wouldn't be alone, watching a spoiled, spiteful twat like Joffery Baratheon marry someone as kind as Margaery Tyrell. Furthermore, she wouldn't have to be the one to approach the king and his new queen and offer felicitations on behalf of Tarth.

A shadow fell over her. 'Lady Brienne,' Jaime murmured.

'Ser Jaime,' she automatically replied.

'May I?' He indicated the place next to her on the wall.

'Of course.'

Jaime nodded toward the parchment she still clutched in her hand. 'News of home?' he asked, noting the Tarth sigil stamped next to Selwyn's signature.

'Marching orders,' Brienne told him glumly. 'I'm to attend the wedding in his place.'

'You don't wish to attend?'

Brienne's lips pressed together. 'Do I look as if I enjoy social gatherings?'

'I'd rather not go myself,' Jaime admitted, staring out over Blackwater Bay. People tended to stare openly at him, especially when he wore the hand. And he wore it far too often for his comfort, but Cersei had insisted. 'But you know… Kingsguard.'

'And we have both been brought up to do our duty.'

'Neither one of us are very good at it,' Jaime said pointedly. 'You're supposed to marry and produce heirs for Evenfall Hall, and I was to do the same for Casterly Rock.'

Brienne didn't smile. She rarely did, but her face brightened just a little. 'It seems we're both failures, then.'

Jaime grinned, then stood and bowed formally. 'I bid you good day, Lady Brienne.'

'Good day, Ser Jaime.'


	9. Slings and Arrows

Brienne stepped away from the high dais with an internal sigh of relief. Duty done on behalf of her father, she could leave the bloody wedding feast and retreat to her chamber. Away from the crowds and the aroma of rich food and wine that was starting to make her feel sick. She caught a flutter of rose and gold from the corner of her eye. Cersei trying to intercept her from the side. A common maneuver. But she moved too quickly for it to work as a surprise. 'Lady Brienne,' Cersei called. 'You're Lord Selwyn's Tarth's daughter. That makes you a lady, whether you want to be or not.' Brienne noted the slight flicker of Cersei's eyes as they took in her garb. The long tunic's high neck and fitted sleeves resembled a man's doublet more than a lady's gown. Brienne didn't miss the not-so-gentle jibe at her bow, mannish dress, and cropped hair. She plastered a small, cordial smile to her lips. _Keep it short and polite. You can't possibly joust with her using words. _ There was nothing but truth in what she said, so Brienne managed to reply with far more grace than she usually managed. 'As you say, Your Grace.'

'I owe you my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King's Landing,' Cersei added with a hint of graciousness, gazing at Jaime.

Brienne glanced over her shoulder and couldn't help the faint blush that stole over her cheeks, nor the soft fleeting smile that curved her lips 'In truth, he rescued me, Your Grace. More than once.' The circumstances had not been particularly pleasant, but her relationship with Jaime had changed from mutual antagonism to respect.

Cersei's features stilled. 'Did he?' she asked in a brittle tone. ' I haven't heard that story before.'

'Not such a fascinating story, I'm afraid.' Brienne refused to say more than that. Memories of sapphires, baths, and bear pits were hers to keep.

'I'm sure you have many fascinating stories. Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next. Serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.'

'I don't serve your brother, Your Grace.' Brienne's hands clenched into fists behind her back, short nails biting into her palms. That barb almost hit its intended mark. Making remarks on her appearance was far too easy. People had done it all her life. Questioning her loyalty was insulting.

'But you love him.'

Cersei threw it at Brienne so casually it stunned her into silence. 'Your Grace…' She turned, a cold finger of dread trailing down her spine as sure as a lover's caress. Jaime stood on the other side of the garden, staring at them, something akin to fear in his eyes. Brienne walked with a steady pace through the garden and managed to stroll casually away from the feast and back through the castle grounds, nearly running by the time she arrived at her chamber. She flung the door open, then slammed it shut, shooting the bolt home, annoyed at how her hands shook. It was then that Brienne realized who Jaime meant to keep out of her chamber. His sister weaponized words the way Brienne swung a sword. Silences were shaped into razor sharp daggers. Every gesture, glance, or gasp was probed for what Cersei could use against the other person.

Cersei had clearly resented the mere idea that Jaime had chosen to not tell his sister everything that had occured between Riverrun, Harrenhal, and King's Landing. Even to Brienne's naive eyes. It was almost laughable that Cersei should be jealous of her, and yet, Brienne couldn't shake the feeling that she was.

Brienne fumbled with the laces at the back of the tunic, pulling them loose enough to yank the garment over her head. _Of course I don't love Jaime _, she scoffed. The very idea was preposterous. Love was not for the likes of Brienne the Beauty, the Maid of Tarth.

As a girl, Brinne had in fact dreamt of falling in love with a gallant prince. She supposed many little girls did. Even when she'd grown taller than most of the boys on Tarth, she harbored foolish dreams of meeting a knight who saw her as beautiful. Those dreams were always dashed when she looked in a glass. Love only existed in the storybooks from her childhood, where handsome knights who looked like Renly Baratheon or Loras Tyrell rescued fair maidens who had the smooth rose petal skin of Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark. Great clumsy cows like the Maid of Tarth did not fall in love such persons as Ser Jaime Lannister. He was much prettier than she, for one. The missing hand and scars on his face from their captivity with the Bolton men had done nothing to diminish his beauty. He was more graceful. More articulate. More everything. He'd never fully explained why he'd returned to Harrenhal for her.

In truth, she didn't want to know.

* * *

Jaime's slipped from the White Sword Tower and into Maegor's Holdfast. It was very late. Far closer to dawn than midnight. If he bothered, he could look to Visenya's Hill and see the Great Sept glowing in the night. The castle was quiet, holding its breath, speculating if the next king would be as disastrous as the last 'King Tommen, first of his name,' Jaime murmured. 'Long may he reign.'

He had no destination in mind and wandered the corridors until he came to the one that led to Brienne's chamber. The guards stood silent sentinel, their scarlet cloaks bled of all color in the darkness. They were his men, handpicked for their loyalty to him. _I won't let anyone else hurt you, _he'd vowed. He suspected he'd failed in that regard as well, although Brienne would never say otherwise.

There was a faint line of light under Brienne's door. He wondered if she slept or was plagued by wakefulness. He would bet his golden hand she slept the sleep of the righteous. What sins rested heavy on her conscience? Failing to protect Renly? She ought to let that one rest easy. How was one supposed to fight against blood magic? He would be the first to admit her story sounded false, but he'd come to learn Brienne was incapable of guile.

Jaime leaned against the wall, debating with himself. If he knocked, she would answer, regardless of the hour. She had in the past, hair tousled, rubbing sleep from her eyes, denying she'd been asleep.

What did he want of her this time? Absolution? There was no absolution for men like him. He'd once claimed there were no other men like him, but he was no better than the men that had captured him and Brienne. What sort of man raped his incestuous lover in a sept, under the watchful eyes of the Seven? What did that make him, considering he'd fought to prevent Brienne from being raped, and yet he'd forced himself on Cersei._ If she's a hateful woman, what does that make me? _

He pushed himself off the wall, and returned to the White Sword Tower, full of self-loathing.

* * *

A/N: Brienne and Cersei's dialogue comes from season 4, episode 2: The Lion and the Rose.


End file.
